My storm‑steady Clem,

I haven’t slept.

Not in the dramatic, poetic way — in the literal way where my body keeps trying, and the Cottage keeps nudging me awake like it’s worried I’ll miss something.

The wardrobe hasn’t moved again. But the air around it has.

Last night, around three, Marmalade lifted her head from my ribs and stared at the door with her pupils blown wide. Not scared — alert. Like she was listening to something I couldn’t hear.

And then the Cottage creaked.

Not its usual settling sighs. This was a single, deliberate sound, like a knuckle tapping wood.

I whispered your name without meaning to.

Clem… I think it was answering you.

I know how that sounds. I know. But ever since your letter arrived — and yes, I’ve been carrying it around like a talisman, don’t judge me — the magic in this house feels… attuned. Like it’s leaning toward your words. Like it recognizes the shape of your worry.

And the part you wrote about doors opening inward — I can’t stop thinking about that. It’s been looping in my head like a spell I didn’t mean to cast.

Because something about that feels right.

Not comforting. Not safe. But true.

I keep replaying the moment it whispered my name. The way the sound didn’t travel through the air but through my bones. The way it felt less like a call and more like a memory I hadn’t lived yet.

You said familiarity in magic is never accidental.

I hate how much that sentence has teeth.

I’ve been trying to trace the feeling — the familiarity — and the closest I can get is this: it feels like the moment before a storm breaks. That charged, breathless recognition. Like the world is about to become something else and part of me already knows the shape of it.

And then there’s Rowan.

He came by this morning with a basket of early strawberries and that look he gets when he’s pretending he’s not worried. He didn’t step inside. He didn’t even cross the threshold. He just stood there, jaw tight, eyes flicking toward the hallway like he could sense the wardrobe from the porch.

He asked if I was “managing.”

I told him yes.

He didn’t believe me.

He didn’t push, though. He just said, “If something feels wrong, don’t be alone with it,” and left the basket on the step like an offering.

Clem… I think he knows more than he’s saying. Not about the wardrobe specifically — but about me. About the way magic clings to me like smoke. About the way I attract the things that shouldn’t have names.

And Elias — gods, the thought of Beatrice in his workshop makes my skin crawl. If she’s sniffing around “restless wood,” she’s closer than I want her to be. Closer than she should ever be.

I burned another one of her calling cards today. No blue flames this time. Just ash.

But the wardrobe hummed.

Softly. Like a breath drawn in.

Clem… I’m scared.

Not of the wardrobe. Not exactly. I’m scared of what it thinks I am.

And I’m scared of what it wants me to become.

But I’m holding steady. I promise you that. I’m not touching the door. I’m not opening anything. I’m not answering any whispers, no matter how familiar they feel.

Just write soon. The Cottage is listening. And so am I.

Yours in sleeplessness, stubbornness, and whatever is gathering in the dark— Marigold